


Our Burning Fragments

by sweetcupncakes



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Gaelic Language, M/M, Outdoor Sex, Possessive Behavior, Sheriarty - Freeform, jimlock, mentions of child abuse, sociopathic tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 00:27:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1087419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetcupncakes/pseuds/sweetcupncakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Do you love me, Sherlock?"  Jim asks as he fits himself against the longer lines of Sherlock's frame.  Grabs the knot of his navy blue school tie, tugs until their mouths nearly touch.  He knows the answer.  </p><p>"No," a breathless murmur, "I scarcely tolerate you at all."  The same, always the same.  Jim tightens his grip on the tie, listens as Sherlock gasps past the restriction of oxygen.  He takes that plush bottom lip, worries at it with teeth and tongue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Our Burning Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> Was prompted for a JimLock/Sheriarty teen-AU by a non-Tumblr user. This is what happened.  
> \---------------------------

Jim runs his fingers through coal black curls, scrapes his nails against the nape of a long neck.  

Sherlock is beautiful like this, all spread out on top of the earth, as if he could simply, over time, dissolve into it.  The Queen Anne's Lace like a veil, obscuring his eyes.  Irises the colour of the firmament on a winter morning.  The perfect contrast to Jim's eyes, dark brown and unfathomable. The white canopies spring up from the ground, alive off the compost of animals and plants long since rotten and sunk into their graves.  The blooms brush against Sherlock's lashes.  

"Do you love me, Sherlock?"  Jim asks as he fits himself against the longer lines of Sherlock's frame.  Grabs the knot of his navy blue school tie, tugs until their mouths nearly touch.  He knows the answer.  

"No," a breathless murmur, "I scarcely tolerate you at all."  The same, always the same.  Jim tightens his grip on the tie, listens as Sherlock gasps past the restriction of oxygen.  He takes that plush bottom lip, worries at it with teeth and tongue.  

"Why not?"  James slides cold fingers underneath the wrinkled uniform and vest, reluctantly releases his hold on Sherlock's tie.

"Does it matter," Sherlock arches into Jim's hand as he ghosts his fingertips down the line of his ribs.  Vulnerable skin covering fragile bones, the pulsing heart underneath it all. "It's only chemistry."

Jim wonders what it would all look like.  If Sherlock would look just as delectable if all his skin were peeled away.  Would Jim still want to fuck him, if all that was left was wiry muscle and delicate bone?  He thinks he'd like to have him any which way, be he bird or bumblebee.  He'd cage him up.  Feed him nectar and brown beetles.  Is that not the same thing as love?

He pushes the knit sweater vest over Sherlock's head, watches silky waves shift and dishevel and fall back in place.  He begins working the buttons.  

 

"Do you even know the difference," As usual, Sherlock's hands dart out in a futile attempt to strip Jim of his shirt as well.  Jim snatches long fingers from between the gaps in his buttons, squeezes Sherlock's wrists together until he hears the notches of his carpuses  grinding.  He fits them over Sherlock's head, not deterred in the least.

"The differences between who and what and when and why?"  He bares the plane of nearly translucent skin.  "Be specific, m'dear, generics don't suit you."  

 

"Between love and possession," Sherlock allows Jim to wrap his wrists together with the long sleeve of his school shirt.  That finished, Jim once again has full range of motion.

 And no, Jim doesn't know the fine line demarcating the two.

 

 If love was a thing you were taught, then he'd missed that vital lesson a long time ago.  Mum died in that hospital in Dublin after a few too many Clonazepams, and Father liked to put out cigarettes on his back.  One of his first memories is of a leather belt being lashed against his skin.   Not exactly the behavior of a properly dynamic household.  He'd stopped caring about it a couple years ago, the day he found father's gun and pressed it into his head.  Told the old man if he ever touched him again, he'd shatter his skull without a single bother given.  Prison was nothing in comparison to trap of his home.  Father was afraid of Jim, now.  

 

"It's not as if you know, either," JIm replies, looks over the hill of the meadow to where Sherlock's family manor can seen in the valley, cobbled stones and cracking plaster.  Silence behind the walls, the steady  _taptap_ of the soles of the servant's shoes.  He bends down to lick a line up Sherlock's neck, cants his hips in a slow, deliberate rut.  Sherlock is already hard, already wanting, but the set of his mouth is fractious.

"Mummy loves--"  he tries.

"Mummy loves fucking the gardner," Jim announces, "And the village butcher, and your Uncle Thatcher.  Anyone who isn't actually your Papa."  He smiles against Sherlock's neck as he feels him tense with the knowledge of it.  Presses his teeth lightly against the line on his throat that flutters and vibrates with Sherlock's pulse.  Jim never tells Sherlock anything he doesn't know with absolute certainty.  

 

"She isn't," Sherlock tries to deny.  

 

Jim shrugs, reaches down to pop the clasp of Sherlock's trousers, "If it makes you feel any better, when she isn't busy whoring herself, she probably does love you."

Sherlock jerks angrily, but Jim drops the full weight of his body on top of him.  Rests his lips against Sherlock's, not kissing him yet, just indulging in the soft sigh that escapes between full lips to break against Jim's mouth and chin.

" _Shh_ ,"  he whispers, darting his tongue out to lick the curve of a cupid's bow, a quick taste, "Don't be cross, darling.  I only wanted you to know the truth.  You know I respect you too much to feed you lies."  Sherlock only huffs, eyes closing, lifts his chin an increment in an attempt to catch JIm's mouth.  Each time he gets close, Jim pulls just out of reach.  He wants Sherlock to ask for it.  It's only polite.

 

Jim dips down to the hollow of Sherlock's jaw, nuzzles there briefly before biting down hard.  It isn't enough to break skin, but it's enough to make Sherlock cry out in pained surprise, and Jim has to hold back from simply turning the boy over and fucking him into the damp ground.  Jim licks over the bite, once, twice, and begins sucking a blood bruise into perfectly white, unmarked skin.  

 

"My father will see, you mustn't," Sherlock tries to object, but he's panting and baring his throat, so Jim continues nipping and sucking, twines his fingers into Sherlock's hair.  He keeps it up until he sees a brilliant bloom of purple and crimson.  Capillaries broken, blood fighting its way to the surface.  

"Tell him you were snogging Margaret McGee in the broom closet," Jim rubs over the bruise with his thumb.  

Sherlock grimaces, furrowing his brow in disgust at the mere suggestion.

 

"What do you think would upset him more?  The fact that you're a sodomite?  Or that you're fucking the Paddy son of the the town drunk."

He pulls away, moves between Sherlock's legs and begins tugging down his trousers, eager to have him completely naked and underneath him,  "Dear father could catch us now, he only need look out the window of his study and over the hill."  Jim slips his arm around the small of Sherlock's back, encourages him to lift up as he lays the starchy uniform trousers underneath his arse.   The only barrier between Sherlock and the earth.  He'll still come away with grass stains, regardless.

 

"What do you reckon he'd say, Sherlock?"  Jim slips his fingers under the elastic of Sherlock's cotton pants, rubs them back and forth, brushing the dewy tip of his cock with his knuckles.  Sherlock trembles, spreads his legs, tries to lift his hips seeking Jim's paper thin offer of friction.  Jim uses his other hand to hold him down at the hips, sharp bones underneath his palm.  

Jim smiles, schools the lilt of his native accent into a perfect imitation of Sherlock's father's haughty diction, " _No son of mine would engage in illicit relations with such ill bred peasants!  Off to bed, without supper!_ "  Jim laughs, because that's certainly not what would be said.  He suspects Father Holmes' tastes run much darker than even Sherlock could fathom.  Sherlock looks for facts and physicality, but Jim looks into the heart of people, and sees the muck filling them up.

 

 

Jim's seen the way Daddy Holmes' gaze lingers too long on Sherlock's mouth and arse.  The long curve of his pretty throat.  The only reason why Jim hasn't said anything (yet) is because he think he'd quite like the opportunity to warn him off, personally.  He begins tugging down Sherlock's cotton briefs, closes his fingers around the base of his cock, bends his head down to give a soft suck, then a kiss to the head.  Sherlock moans, tries to push up past Jim's crushing hold on his hip and into his mouth.  Spoiled rotten, this one.  If only he'd  _ask._

 _  
_Jim sits back onto his heels, just to look, always to look.  Sherlock irradiant and fanned out, green grass and white blooms caressing the edges of his skin, the sky and clouds reflective of his eyes.  A brilliant streak against the incomprehensibly aphotic universe.  He bends to whisper in his ear.

 

" _Tá tú go h-álainn,"_  Jim rubs his nose against Sherlock's, his inherent language rolling off his tongue like a familiar melody, " _A chuisle, a chroí."_

 

"Kiss me," Sherlock murmurs against his lips, "James, just..  Please."   _Finally_ , he asks.

 

Jim closes the gap between their mouths, doesn't even need to work to coax out Sherlock's tongue.  He kisses him the way Sherlock ought to be kissed, with complete dilligence and attention, soft then hard, rough then soothing.  Jim wonders if Sherlock can taste the intrinsic madness inside of Jim's mind, on his tongue.  They strain against each other.  Jim imagines in a world of analogies, that he is the rough sandpaper to Sherlock's supple wood.  Scraping off bits of Sherlock for himself with every desperate rut.  

 

Jim reaches into his pocket, retrieves the tube of lubricant he filched from the top drawer of his father's nightstand.  His father was going to use to masturbate to large breasted women in magazines.  Jim felt it was better suited for _his_ purposes.  He loosens his belt, pours the viscous stuff over his finger and sits back betwen Sherlock's legs.

 

"Don't come yet," he warns Sherlock as he wraps his lips around the head of his cock.  Distracts him with his tongue while Jim uses his fingers to stretch Sherlock open.  He punctuates every pump of his fingers with deep suction and broad licks.  The quiet  _sucksuck_ of his saliva being dragged along the hard jut of Sherlock's prick sounding nearly similar to wet sounds of the lubricant.  When he's able, he pulls his mouth away.   Jim crooks his finger and brushes against Sherlock's prostate.  He writhes around where Jim's fingers are buried, his breath pulling into a halt before releasing it shakily.  

 

"Good boy," Jim praises, lowering his trousers and boxers to pool low on his thighs, "Thought you were going finish there, for a moment."  He brings his arms around the propped angles of Sherlock's bare knees, guides his hips up a bit, "I'd hate for you to be uncomfortable and oversensitive while I'm sodding the public school-brat out of you, but I'm sure I could manage.  Look at me."

 

Sherlock's eyes drag open, they're hazy and unfocused, but that's how Jim likes it when he has him.  He bends forward, Sherlock wraps his legs around him, urging in his with his heels.  Not very polite, but Jim will work on that later.  He pushes in in one swift thrust, a justifying tit for tat.  Sherlock goes tense, pained noises hissing from between his teeth, but Jim doesn't move, he stays completely still and waits for Sherlock to unlock around him.  Slowly, he does.

 

"I won't ever let you leave me, you realize," Jim tells him, begins rocking his hips, "I'll keep you forever."  He pulls out completely, delights in Sherlock's gasp of protest, and slams back into him.  Sherlock shakes a little, loops his still-bound hands over Jim's shoulders.

 

"What makes you think-- _oh God--_ That I would let you? "

 

Jim considers it, indulges himself with a few more hard pumps, buries himself to the hilt and nudges his mouth against Sherlock's ear, "A fish may love the bird, but where would they build their home," he recites the old adage.  

"We're the same, you and I.  Birds, the two of us.  Above the earth, seeing everything.  You'd never have to compromise.  I want you _exactly_ how you are."  Doesn't want him tamed, his abrasivity tarnished.  Their jagged pieces to be forced out of complement.

 

He lifts his face, practically bending Sherlock in half to take his mouth, kissing him until he's breathless and keening.  He retreats backward and begins fucking Sherlock in earnest.  He looks down between their chests, past his own shirttails, watches his cock push in and out of Sherlock's arsehole.  Owning him, this way.  Wanting Sherlock for himself, wanting him badly.   He wouldn't throw himself in front of a bus to save him, after all, Jim is a survivor.  His instincts would never let him.  But he wants to possess him so completely that it destroys Sherlock, and remakes him.  Is that not love?  Is it not close enough?  Loving him to the extent of his capabilities.  Loving him so much that he would rather kill Sherlock than to have him leave on his own?  It will have to be enough.

 

" _G_ _o síoraí,"_ Forever, he tells Sherlock even if he doesn't understand.  He reaches between them, grasps Sherlock's cock, slicks his finger around the slit, " _G_ _o deo na ndeor."_ Always and forever.

 He pulls out again, throws Sherlock's legs over his shoulders, and fucks into him again.  And again.  And again.  Until he can hear Sherlock's voice in every moan, until he thrashes his head back and forth against the ground.  The colourless canopies of Queen Anne's Lace breaking off from their stems to weave into his hair.  So gorgeous.  Stunning.

 "Tell me you're mine,"  Jim demands, " _Tell me._ " 

Sherlock shakes his head, refusing.  Jim narrows his eyes.  So stubborn.  He slaps him across the cheek.  Sherlock's head snaps to the side, only to jerk back to look at Jim again.  Eyes dark and angry, "Harder, like you hate me," he snarls at Jim.  

 

Jim rears his hand back, sends it singing across high cheekbones.  The color it brings to already flushed cheeks, ruddy and hot.  

 

He pulls out of Sherlock, quickly and efficiently flips him over at the hips, angles into Sherlock's sweet spot and moves.  Sherlock begins to unravel, his muscles coiling and releasing.  JIm watches the the tension building in his spine.  He scratches his nails down Sherlock's back, wishing he could see blood.  " _Say it."_

" _Yes_ , fuck,  _yours,"_ Sherlock gasps, his cheek flat against the grass, curls bouncing in time with every piston of Jim's hips.

 

 Sherlock bites into his forearm when he starts to come, his body trembling and clutching at Jim's prick with every pulse.  His semen pulsing onto the school trousers Jim had set underneath him mere minutes ago.  

Jim keeps at it for for another half dozen thrusts, Sherlock yelping in oversensitivity.  True to his word, Jim manages in spite of it.  Likes having Sherlock whimpering and overwhelmed, and it's those helpless noises that bring Jim across the edge.  The surge of adrenaline, dopamine, winding up inside of him, given over to friction and biology.  He climaxes silently, breathless and unable to form words, comes inside of Sherlock.

 

He slumps over Sherlock's back, covering his naked body.  He wonders how long it will be before they're caught.  They will be, one day.  Not that secrets matter much to Jim, beyond what the threat of exposing them earns.  

 

He pulls out of Sherlock's body, watches rapt as a drop of come spills.  He dips his finger into it, swipes it back up into Sherlock's hole even when he flinches away a bit, still coming down from orgasm.  He reaches up, rolls Sherlock onto his side, completely naked save his tie, and unashamed.  Jim undoes the binding around his wrists.  Kisses him softly, ghosts soothing caresses against the red handprint on Sherlock's cheek where he struck him.  Weaves their fingers together, brings their joined hands underneath his chin as he fits himself to the longer curve of Sherlock's body.  Sherlock hums, presses his forehead into Jim's shoulder.

 

"This," he murmurs, kissing the line of Jim's trapezius through his still buttoned school shirt, "Touching you this way, it feels like love.  Something like it, were I capable of such a thing. It feels close enough."

 

The autumn breeze wisps around them, dries the sweat from Jim's brow.  Shakes the dying leaves from their branches, gravity inevitably drawing them to the ground.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> \------------------------  
> I couldn't help but slip in some old Gaelic endearments. It's where I hail from, and I just HAD to.
> 
> Tá tú go h-álainn -- You're beautiful
> 
> A chuisle, a chroí --My pulse, my heart.
> 
> I went there, and I'm not sorry!


End file.
